


Never Underestimate the Power of Sexy Lingerie: Silky Underthings Might Not Save the World, but They Just Might Save Your Marriage

by anguis_1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Body Image, Community: hp_goldenage, F/M, Fat Character, Lingerie, Old Character, Salt and Pepper Fest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 07:38:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6845383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anguis_1/pseuds/anguis_1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: “Convinced that her husband is losing interest, she decides to spice things up with some sexy, new lingerie.”<br/>Coming up on fifty years of marriage, Millicent knows that there is something wrong in her relationship with Neville, and Hermione thinks she has a solution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Underestimate the Power of Sexy Lingerie: Silky Underthings Might Not Save the World, but They Just Might Save Your Marriage

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2016 hp_goldenage Salt and Pepper Fest.

It was past midnight when Neville finally eased through the back door, dropped his muck-encrusted workrobes in the laundry basket by the door, banished the worst of the dirt and sweat on his winter-pasty body with a half-hearted Scourgify, trudged up the stairs, and collapsed into bed. Millicent stirred sleepily at his arrival. He slung his arm over her, but no hand caressed her breast, its nipple already achingly, futilely swelling in anticipation. He spooned firmly up against her backside, fitting in with the ease of several thousand nights of practice, but no erection met her tentative squirming. Instead, there was only the gentle wheeze that presaged his cacophonous snoring.

The next morning was Saturday, yet Millicent awakened to a rainy, grey dawn alone in the bed. She groggily patted the Neville-shaped depression in the mattress, swore, and punched his pillow. It wasn't very satisfying, so she tried it again, accomplishing nothing more than setting free a few feathers that shot up into the air and floated lazily down onto the floor. Muttering a few more words that would make a hag blush, she yanked the duvet over her head and huddled down for another hour of sleep.

That afternoon at the Golden Niffler, Hermione was trying to engage Millicent in intelligent conversation but was only receiving monosyllabic answers.

"It's been ages since we've seen Neville. How has he been getting on lately?"

"He's fine," Millicent said, glaring at the pile of roast parsnips she was stabbing. Hermione cocked her head in anticipation of a further explanation, and Millicent—all too familiar with these interrogation techniques—continued her dogged scrutiny of the lumpy root vegetables on her plate. Both witches had the stamina for this to continue all afternoon, had Millicent not looked quite so tight around the eyes and had Hermione not seen the same expression her mirrored reflection had worn twenty years ago when it had seemed like her own life was crumbling apart.

She caved. "Whether he's fine or not might be some matter for debate, but you're definitely not. What's wrong?"

Millicent’s angry rigidity disintegrated as her shoulders slumped. "We are." She sighed. "I don't know. Something's wrong between us, and he's not home enough to sit down and talk it out."

Now that it was out in the open, the patient silence tactic brought forth fruit. In terse, blunt statements, Millicent outlined the misery of the past month: Neville’s seeming avoidance of spending any time in her presence, his complete disinterest in sex when he did finally join her in bed, and the abrupt cessation of their evening chats and weekend rambles.

"At Hogwarts, I made my peace with looking forward to a practical, passionless union with someone who could stomach my face over breakfast and maybe steel himself to produce an heir or two—if I even would get married at all. I was content with that. But then Neville . . . ." She gestured vaguely, at a loss to find expression for the transformation he had wrought (the transformative power they'd had on _each other_ , although she never could quite own up to her part in it). "And now that I'm nearing seventy, I realise that I can't regain the contentment I so stupidly gave up at seventeen. Having once been attractive and interesting to him, blind and daft as he was, it's killing me to lose that."

Hermione sat back, considering. She'd had an inkling that something was amiss, but hadn't imagined it was quite so serious. Now that she'd heard it, it wasn't something she could ignore, and she never shied away from a challenge, particularly when one of her friends was in need. Her brain immediately set to clicking over possible causes and solutions, and she began to muse out loud.

"When you thought you were beautiful, you were."

"And now I'm not. Thanks. I'd figured that much out myself."

"If you were anyone else, Millicent, I'd call you out for fishing for compliments. You've got a strong, bone-deep beauty—and you'll have that even when your skin falls in curtains about your face and your breasts have flattened to pancakes—but right now you're looking careworn and melancholy and miserable, and about as self-assured as a cornered mouse." She grew stern. "You need to talk to him. Tonight, if possible, but if you go into it as you are now, you won't do a whit of good. You won't be _you_ , and you'll probably say something stupid—or worse, completely avoid it, which is what you've been doing."

Hermione always spoke her mind. It was one of many traits they shared, for better or for worse, and it was one of the reasons why the unlikely friendship had flourished as it did. Neville had been the catalyst—like many of the things Millicent valued in her life that were good and true, it came back to him, which at this moment stung like an open wound. In the year that was spent unraveling the confusion and destruction left after Voldemort’s second defeat, Neville had faced down the pair of them and delivered his ultimatum. He had been pale and sweating and trembling, but he had also locked them together in a room impressively warded against both magic and escape until they could actually get along. Although it had taken two days, three black eyes, a barrage of epithets, and a reluctantly-used chamber pot, they had emerged with the realisation that their contrary upbringings and House loyalties were more inconsequential than their pre-war selves had been led to believe, particularly when weighed in the balance against their similarities and the fact that they now had Neville in common. They then surpassed his expectations of grudging civility and became staunch friends.

"Well, I agree with the part about needing to talk to him soon, and with a bit of backbone. I know I haven't been trying as hard as I could." It was a painful admission. "I think I'm a bit afraid of what he's going to say."

"See? That's what I mean! It's not like you to avoid a confrontation, even when you're scared of the outcome."

"So, what do I do?"

"I can't do anything about the real problem. That's all on you and Neville. However, I _might_ have an idea of how to retrieve a bit of your backbone. Trust me?"

Millicent rolled her eyes at the rhetorical question. "I'd hardly have spilled all that to you if I didn't."

"Just checking." Hermione smiled brightly. "Wait here while I do a spot of reconnaissance. Back in twenty minutes!"

********

Twenty-three minutes later, Hermione manoeuvred Millicent through the door of a shop festooned with charmed posies and a great deal of purple drapery. They were greeted by a vivacious young witch whose short hair, short fingernails, and short robes all matched the décor.

"Welcome! My name's Lacey Marlowe, and I'm the 'Lace' half of Lavender and Lace. What may I assist you with?"

Millicent was looking precariously mutinous, so Hermione began, "We're here to look at some lingerie—"

"Oh, it’s wonderful to see a mother and mother-in-law-to-be getting along so well in helping a bride get ready for that special day!" Lacey gushed. "I wish _I_ had thought ahead to send out scouts."

Millicent spun on the heel of her battered dragonhide boot and was out the door before Hermione could begin to correct the proprietor's lamentable misjudgment of the situation.

It took a bit of coaxing on Hermione’s part, but eventually Millicent allowed herself to be propelled into another establishment with a bit less lace and a few more noughts filling out the price tags.

The shop assistant wore a cheek-splitting smile as she addressed her offer of service to Hermione. The teeth vanished when she was informed that Millicent was the intended client.

"Erm, well, it's just that you're . . . you're more _well-endowed_ than our products can accommodate."

A series of crude cupping motions over chest and stomach ruined any illusions of tact she might have been hoping to maintain.

"You don't cater to fat witches, you mean?" Millicent challenged.

The assistant's eyes widened in horror at the mention of the f-word. She hurried to mollify the intimidating woman whose eyes had taken on a dangerous gleam. "You're not fat, ma'am. You're just—"

Whatever placatory euphemism she was about to use died in her throat as Millicent brandished two fingers, said the _other_ f-word, and stalked away muttering.

Hermione tsked, as much at herself for failing to be thorough in her research as at the boorish assistant staring gobsmacked at Millicent’s retreating backside.

Millicent insisted on waiting outside for the satisfying squeal as the time-delayed Engorgement Charms she had cast on the mannequins began to take effect.

"Well, there's one more place to try before we fall back on catalogue shopping."

This announcement was met with incredulity. "I don't know why we're going to all this trouble for something he probably won't even get to see, much less appreciate."

"Really, Millicent! We aren't shopping for a gift for _him_. We're looking for something to remind _you_ of your worth and bolster your confidence."

"And a fucking amazing job we've done so far," growled Millicent. "I now feel _confident_ that I'm too old and too fat for all of this."

Hermione just tutted and marched around the corner into Knockturn Alley. The labyrinthine alleyway was still a bit of a dodgy place, but in a rather different direction than it had taken in their youth.

Their destination was a large, nondescript storefront jutting out from a dogleg in the street. Millicent peered dubiously up at an enchanted sign promising discretion in the sale of a variety of products that definitely were not permitted even to be advertised in Diagon Alley.

"This isn't a clothing shop."

"Not exclusively," Hermione hedged. "But they're reputed to have the largest inventory of lingerie in all of wizarding Britain."

She thrust the door open and strode directly toward the counter, where she stopped dead in shock.

"Leopold!”

An unruly tangle of red hair jerked up from behind a magazine that was obviously store merchandise.

"Gran!"

It probably wasn't _too_ awful of her that the expression on the teen’s spotty face as he goggled at Hermione began to buoy Millicent's sagging spirits.

He recovered first and pleaded, "You won't tell Mum and Dad, will you?"

"What, that you like to look at large, naked breasts? I'm rather certain that's not going to surprise them, even if those large, naked breasts happen to belong to centaurs. I'm just glad you're willing to be open-minded about other species, although are you sure that those models have been adequately protected against exploitation? It's rather a problem in the pornographic entertainment industry in general, but non-human sentient beings are particularly vulnerable—"

Before Hermione could get started with her discourse on ethical porn, Millicent interrupted shrewdly, "No—he's really hoping you don't share that he’s an exhibitionist who likes wanking in public, secretly hoping to get caught."

Leoopold's eyes popped comically wide open as he snatched his other hand out of his robes and vainly tried to sneak it surreptitiously onto the counter.

Hermione smirked. "Ah, he _does_ take after his grandfather."

The comically wide eyes were joined by a sudden pallor as Leopold stammered, "You, you mean Grandpa _Weasley_?"

Grinning wickedly, Hermione replied, "Well, I never had occasion to catch Grandpa Malfoy going at it—"

Millicent cut in before she lost out on all the fun. "That's only because you didn't live with him for nearly seven years in the Slytherin dormitory. He used to—"

Leopold slammed the magazine down hard, making the shapely centaur on the cover stop fondling herself long enough to aim a pouty scowl in his general direction. "Okay! Okay! I deserved that, I know. But all I really want is that you don't tell Mum and Dad that I didn't get that sales position at Quality Quidditch Supplies."

His grandmother fixed him with a stern wag of her finger. "That's nothing to be ashamed of. It was a highly competitive position, and your CV was pretty short."

"I know. The thing is, _all_ of the other shops turned me down. This is the only place that would hire me on."

Millicent added, "And this isn't exactly a CV-building job experience."

"Right," sighed Leopold. "Dad was so thrilled when I said that I thought I was in with a chance—I know, I'm an idiot—and then . . . I guess I just didn't have the heart to let him down."

Millicent decided to cut the family drama short before sentimentality leached all the humour out of the situation, and soon Leopold had regained some color as he animatedly extolled the wonders of the store’s innovative magical fitting device that scanned a customer's body and automatically retrieved suitable garments from the extensive storeroom in the cellar. He had made some adjustments to the spells to account for 'the truly staggering array of breast shapes and positions found in the general population and usually ignored by your average untrained lingerie fitter.' He seemed truly gratified that his enthusiasm for all things mammary could be combined with his interest in tinkering with spells and channeled in a productive direction.

Before she could find some pretense to leave, Millicent was shoved into what appeared to be a rather small cupboard for scanning, and within two minutes, she found herself alone in a mirrored fitting room with a pile of underthings purportedly in her size, ready for her appraisal.

The mirror only managed a smarmy, "Darling, you look absolutely—" before falling silent and inanimate. Setting her wand on the conveniently placed chair, Millicent quickly divested herself of her robes.

Like most witches of her generation, she had taken to wearing knickers under her robes (much to the horror and disgust of their elders, who had predicted an epidemic of Minge Mildew and were greatly disappointed when nothing of the sort manifested itself). Unlike her peers, however, Millicent's had always been constructed of a great deal of plain cotton.

She eased the waistband down around her thighs and caught a glimpse of the sight she tried to avoid every morning and evening. Most days she changed with her back to the mirror, but here she was surrounded. There was a tangle of scars and rippled flesh below her navel. The edges were starting to pucker and crinkle as the years took their toll on her skin, but it still looked much the same as when a brutal curse had bored through layers of fat and muscle to char her reproductive organs to ash.

It had been on a dreary afternoon in her turbulent seventh year at Hogwarts when she had learned the painful, shocking lesson that a lifetime of keeping her head down and her nose clean was not enough to atone for the crime of having a Muggle great-grandmother. That evening she had learned an equally shocking lesson in true loyalty, when Headmaster Snape had plucked her from the floor outside the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom—still curled around the agony in her belly—and deposited her in front of a blank expanse of wall in a seventh floor corridor with some rather curious instructions and a promise (or perhaps an order) made with flashing black eyes that she _would_ survive.

Survive she did, and when the year was over and life was starting to veer back towards the mundane, she had thought to join the dreary herd of office workers that kept the gears of the Ministry of Magic grinding ceaselessly away, but upon setting off five different Dark Magic detectors on her first day of orientation, she walked out and never returned. (The Wizarding Wireless Network turned out to be a much more congenial employer.)

The Healers at St. Mungo’s had been apologetic. There were some spells that simply could not be reversed, and her uterus and ovaries could not be regrown. In their place was a malignant emptiness that even half a century on still deflected her internal organs in a sudden roll of nausea and pain whenever she bent over or pressed against it.

She made a very good honorary aunt and found it far more entertaining than she'd ever thought possible. She would have made a crap mum. She _knew_ that.

Millicent prodded her stomach viciously—once, twice, bringing her other hand to clamp over her mouth the third time when her lunch began to rise in the back of her throat. She and Neville had fumbled around for quite a long time when they first became intimate. Somewhere in all that fumbling, he had learned how to avoid causing her discomfort, how to bring her pleasure without also bringing her pain. Even in this last month, when he had apparently lost all interest in their relationship, he still flopped into bed and wrapped himself around her with exquisite care not to disturb her damaged innards.

All at once, she felt feverish. The mirror distorted crazily, and the walls of the small room seemed to press in upon her. She pulled her underwear up, jammed her arms back into her sleeves, and flung the door open.

" _I can’t._ "

The cascading bundle of satin and lace exploded into Hermione’s arms as Millicent thrust it blindly and headed towards the wavering light of the door and escape.

Dropping the clothes and taking a shortcut through bondage, Hermione caught up with her amidst a large display of luridly colored (and outrageously sized) artificial genitals and blocked her retreat.

"What's wrong?"

"Just let it go," Millicent snarled.

Almost any other witch would have stepped aside to let the panicked maelstrom of rage and misery wash by her instead of putting herself in its path. Hermione had faced far worse and lived to tell the tale, so she arched an eyebrow, planted hands on hips, and crowded close to her towering, glowering friend.

"'Just let it go?' You really expect to pull that on me, and I'll stand back and let you stomp off into Knockturn Alley in a strop?" The glare she received could easily have ignited kindling. "I won't let you do that."

"You're not _letting_ me?"

This was dangerous territory.

"Look, I know that a frilly pair of knickers isn't a magic cure for marital difficulties—that's part of a long list of things magic can't fix—but you've got to do something, and you've got to do it soon." Hermione grabbed the nearest dildo off a shelf. It was a vile shade of green with sparkles highlighting the veins and pulsed gently at her touch. "Do you really want to be stuck with _this_ for the rest of your days? Maybe it'll give you more pleasure than Neville is right now, but I can guarantee you it won't listen to your stories or share your joys or comfort you when nothing seems to be going right—"

Leopold looked up and saw the pair having a heated debate in the sex toy aisle, although he couldn't hear anything. (He expected nothing less of his grandmother, who tossed spells around more casually than anyone he knew.) He did have a clear view of the action, however, and the sight of his gran brandishing a dildo was enough incentive to return to his magazine with an almost manic fixation.

She had on an _I-am-THIS-close-to-shoving-this-up-your-arse_ look, and perhaps, upon reflection, it would be wiser to let them sort out their own problems. Aunt Millicent could certainly hold her own, and they weren't likely to break anything that couldn't be repaired with a few charms. He had more of Hermione's conscience than he liked to let on, so he hastily returned to the task of examining the fine print to see how _Buxom Beasts_ sourced their models.

Hermione finished more gently, "—and it surely won't look at you as though you've just hung the sun and the moon and the stars in the sky." Millicent slumped, the panic evaporating and the fury dissipating with no target to spend itself on, and looked so desolate that it took all Hermione's willpower to resist giving her a hug.

Before Millicent had the chance to argue, Hermione had taken her by the arm and led her back to the fitting room, which she enlarged so that there was enough room for the both of them.

"Now, what's wrong?"

"This."

Millicent hiked up her robes and dipped the waistband of her knickers to flash the knotted scar tissue for a few seconds before covering up again.

Once again, patient silence won out. Despite fifty years to blunt the sharp edges, the story spilled out raw and ragged and broken.

When the flow of words trickled to a halt, Hermione said quietly, "We always thought you and Neville were childless by your own choice."

"We _would've_ chosen this route anyway. Nev—" Millicent swallowed the rest of his name, as there are some confidences about your husband you just don't share, even to your best girlfriend. "It should've given me more peace about that decision—it should have made it _easier_ —but instead it's just festered away, even after all these years. That choice should have been mine to make." Her voice cracked. "It should have been _ours_."

Although Hermione had been spared this particular misfortune, she had known loss and sorrow, and she had a tender heart. Her eyes began to glisten, but—thank Merlin—there was no pity in her expression.

Nonetheless, Millicent hated tears, and it was only Neville—who wept for joy and beauty as well as grief and pain and sometimes even from lack of sleep, whose strength she knew and did not doubt—only Neville who had ever seen her cry. He had seen the tears she tried so hard to hide, and had held her (awkwardly at first), and had not thought her weak.

Although Hermione was well-intentioned enough, it wasn't just about being self-confident enough to confront him and stand up for herself. It had taken a while and rather a lot of distress, but Millicent had finally figured out that marriage was more about giving and sacrifice than it was about grasping at self-fulfilment. Her husband—who had learned at a far younger age to put others before himself—had patiently waited while she had blundered around catching up to him. If she wasn't sure she'd bother to do this for herself, she knew she could—and _would_ —do this for him.

"Okay, enough with the waterworks. It's ancient history. Right now, I'd just like to find something to wear and be done with it."

Hermione swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, pinched the bridge of her nose, and quickly put on her best get-down-to-business face. She glanced down at the small mountain of fabric at their feet.

"Anywhere particular you'd like to start?"

Millicent snorted. "I wear a black flannel nightrobe every night. I don't even know what half of this stuff is, much less how you'd put it on or what it should look like."

Hermione changed her approach. "So, which of your features does Neville like best?"

"Whatever's on the opposite side of my body from where he's standing."

Hermione waited for the elaboration.

"He likes to have something to hang on to—my arse if we're face-to-face," Hermione's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, except to one who was looking for it, which Millicent most definitely was. "My tits and belly if he's behind." The hint of an impish grin began to relax the tension in Millicent's face as she continued, "And of course, he loves my pussy!"

Hermione opened her primly-compressed lips enough to ask sweetly, "And which of your pussies does he like best: Lumos or Nox?"

Millicent's cats—one white, one black—were well-known for their shenanigans.

"They both have him wrapped around their furry little paws, although Nox can be a bit of a terror. If he finds us while we’re fucking, he thinks we’re playing and wants to join in. He's a small cat with small claws, but I'm sure you can imagine that even a little prick on a big cock can be quite excruciating."

It was such a relief to see her friend beginning to calm down, that Hermione had to smile despite the grating language. She wasn't a prude—and in fact was quite direct in matters sexual—but she _was_ inordinately bothered by sexual slang. (Quite early on in their marriage, she had insisted that Ron learn and use proper scientific terminology. When he discovered this, Harry had been greatly amused, until Ron had shrugged and said that it was more than balanced out by absolutely brilliant manual, oral, vaginal, and anal sex. This was followed by a terribly awkward week in which Harry blushed and stuttered every time he so much as looked at a very perplexed Hermione, but he never teased Ron about it again.)

Since the only thing more cheering than a funny-in-retrospect anecdote is two such stories, Hermione admitted that Rose and Hugo had been the same when they were little and the family had been living in a small flat with doors curiously impervious to locking charms. "I had to teach them about sex very early, as we couldn't have them wandering around thinking it was a fun game to play with their cousins or each other."

Through snorts of laughter, Millicent said, "I always wondered why they were so precocious in that area."

"Well, I'd planned on teaching them about it thoroughly and properly, just perhaps not quite so young."

"You mean, _after_ they'd passed through the phase where they want to tell everyone things about what goes on at home that would be best left private?"

"O Merlin, yes!"

The two witches collapsed against the walls in helpless paroxysms of laughter, remembering countless dinners, outings, and—on one particularly memorable occasion—a glamorous soirée hosted by the Minister for Magic that were interrupted by Rose or Hugo volunteering that their parents had been having sex that afternoon, were going to have sex when they got home, were thinking about sex, or had just snuck away to have sex in the loo.

As Hermione’s charm dropped, the unnatural silence could suddenly be felt in its absence, like kicking off a heavy wool blanket on a cold night. Leopold supposed that near-hysterical laughter was preferable to assault with a dildo, and thanked his lucky stars that he probably would be spared the embarrassment of writing up _that_ incident report. He'd quite quickly got over most discomfitures of his job, but having to name his grandmother and honorary great-aunt as the offending parties in such a disturbance would have made his teenage sensibilities writhe in humiliation.

Millicent stripped once more. Hermione’s eyes were immediately drawn to the mass of scars, and she was stoically allowed to make a thorough examination. It was strangely easier to face as the subject of Hermione’s curiosity than alone with a mirror and some painful memories.

Thankfully, a quarter cup bra was on the top of the pile, which led to a renewal of levity. It was one of those products that had been expanded to a larger size without the benefit of a designer’s expertise in considering the structural ramifications.

After helping a quietly swearing Millicent untangle herself from the contraption, Hermione—being less than averagely endowed—allowed herself an envious sigh over Millicent’s breasts. Millicent countered that they were part and parcel with her fat arse, double chin, prominent belly, and wobbly thighs.

"And you enjoy the whole package."

"Of course I do, but you know I'm a bit mad. It's not for everyone."

Most of the remaining items were dismissed in quick succession: black patterned stockings with a neon pink suspender belt, French knickers in hideous shades of mustard yellow and bile green, anything made with lace cheap enough to itch, a bustier so supportive that Millicent joked about its usefulness this time of year when she wanted to keep her neck warm, a diaphanous feather-trimmed negligee that tickled that unreachable spot between her shoulder blades, and a number of low-rise thongs that set her scars on display.

Nearing the bottom of the pile, as Millicent was beginning to despair of finding anything even vaguely suitable and Hermione was beginning to doubt the wisdom of her impetuous plan, a promising prospect emerged. It turned out to be a simple chemise in dark blue satin, trimmed with soft black lace and embellished with vines embroidered in silver thread that set off the silver in her hair. There were adequate charms to support her ample bosom and nothing to constrain her midsection. It fit beautifully, and Millicent couldn't keep her hands from smoothing the silky fabric over her hips again and again. The remainder of the clothing was left untouched.

Millicent told Leopold that she was wearing it home and tugged the front of her robes down so he could remove the tamper-proof tag. He fumbled a bit trying to center his wand on the touchpoint without getting too much of an eyeful of her cleavage, because as magnificent as it was, she was still sort-of family (although, not _technically_ ), and anyway, his gran was watching. As a consequence, he spent a very confused and somewhat uncomfortable rest of the afternoon.

Red-cheeked, he looked back to Hermione. "You promise you won’t tell Mum and Dad?"

She hesitated, her ever-punctilious conscience mulling over the familial obligations and moral imperatives involved.

Millicent interjected, "She won't tell them, because then you'd have no reason to keep mum about the surprise she got for your grandfather." Hermione harrumphed and tucked the small package into her robes, as Millicent drew herself up to her full imposing height. "However, _I_ have no such compunctions. Your parents deserve better than lies from you. Go home and come clean to them tonight so I won’t have to."

As they exited into the grimy slush of Knockturn Alley, she said, "There! I think I discharged my aunt-ish duties quite well, if I do say so myself."

Hermione smiled. That had been a welcome glimpse of the assertive, self-assured friend she knew and loved. She was a fundamentally logical person, but even she couldn't deny the mysterious power of sexy lingerie.

********

After parting back at the Golden Niffler, Millicent tossed her handful of Floo powder into the fireplace, thinking that Hermione might have been on to something. She was already walking taller and felt the old snap come back to her stride. The pep talk might have contributed, as well. Whatever it was, she felt as though she could tackle a Graphorn, and she wasn't about to lose this momentum. She was going to fix a decent dinner and then send a Patronus to Neville requesting that he come home and eat with her.

Hermione—early on in their friendship, when they both were younger and more intemperate—had once chided her for surrendering to conventional gender stereotypes by doing all of the cooking and most of the cleaning. Millicent had retorted that she wasn't about to let other people’s narrow-minded thinking get in the way of her nourishment, and really, wasn't it just a new gender stereotype that said women couldn’t possibly be happy cooking and cleaning, and would House Elf ownership be a more preferable option?

Neville performed about as well in the kitchen as he had in the Potions classroom, so after a few frustrating months of attempting to share the household tasks equally, they agreed that Millicent would prepare all the food if he took care of the laundry. Their meals became consistently edible, and their robes stopped shrinking, so they had maintained that division of labour ever since.

Millicent was still reminiscing fondly about the heated debate that had ensued from Hermione's indignant rebuttal as she stepped through the fireplace into the kitchen and brushed the soot from her robes. That thought, as well as the half-decided-upon recipe for beef stew and her intentions of setting out their best silver, completely evaporated with the careful click of the back door latch and the arrival of the last person she expected to see: her husband.

"I—" She stared at him stupidly. "You're here for supper?"

He looked at her in equal confusion. "Er, yeah? I mean, this is our house, right?" A brief flare of panic flickered across his face until his eyes latched on to one of their wedding photographs peeking out from behind Millicent’s collection of cauldrons. Thus anchored, he continued more confidently, "Yes, I'm home for supper."

"For as little time as you've been spending here, I'm not surprised you have trouble recognising the place." Her response was unthinkingly caustic and regretted as soon as it was made, but she was unable to recant it.

Neville bit his lip and rubbed at his receding hairline.

"I know I haven't been around much lately, and I'm sorry. Actually, tonight I wanted to tell you why."

He was anxious about something, but the knot in her stomach didn’t quite feel like impending doom. Not yet. She had bought an eighteen galleon slip of fabric for exactly this moment, so perhaps it was just the miser in her not willing to concede that her nonreturnable purchase had been in vain. Before he could explain and perhaps shatter their relationship irredeemably, she peremptorily cast off her robes.

"I— Wait, what?" Neville gaped at his wife. She met his gaze grimly, jaw and fists clenched. The low-cut chemise said, 'Come hither' (and quite a bit more), while her posture screamed, 'Get the hell away from me!' He was completely bewildered.

"It was Hermione's idea."

He pondered that revelation and then shook his head. "I'm still lost."

"I know there's something wrong between us, and I know just as well that I've been avoiding confronting you about it. I was—" Millicent swallowed painfully. "I was scared. _Am._ Hermione pried it out of me and decided I needed a swift kick in the rear to make sure I talk to you. She took me shopping and, well, here I am."

He had been so excited to see the look on her face. That had been the sole inspiration propelling him through the last few weeks of drudgery, pulling him out of the warm embrace of his wife far too early in the morning and pushing him on through mind-numbing exhaustion far too late at night. Now all he felt was a cold and empty fear threatening to overwhelm him.

"No, no . . . I, no . . . that's not . . . just—" He dug his fingertips into his forehead and tried again. "Let me explain. _Please._ "

Millicent nodded stiffly.

"So, you know our fiftieth anniversary is coming in a week—"

She held her tongue. Their anniversary was tomorrow.

She had prepared a veritable feast for their first anniversary, and he'd not come home until nearly midnight, having stayed at the greenhouse to work on an interesting development in aquatic grasses. She had flung the cold roast chicken at him when he said he had thought the date was a week and a half in the future. She hadn't believed his confusion to be genuine and had locked him out of their bedroom that night. However, it wasn't just their anniversary. Her birthday, friends’ birthdays, even his own—he misremembered them all. He usually was within a month’s scope of accuracy and was just as likely to be early as to be late.

Neville's memory was a curious thing: he couldn't remember important dates or the eggs he'd promised to bring home three nights in a row, but he could recall their first proper date down to the excruciatingly rude things she had said to him (and that he recounted with such affection that she could never quite save herself the embarrassment by telling him to shut up), and he noticed and remembered a myriad of seemingly random details. He knew that her favourite flowers were thistles and never brought home daisies because she was allergic. He could recite the favourite drinks of all of his friends, and he knew exactly what to say to comfort a distraught colleague or to quell a rising temper, and he had committed to fingertip memory every caress and sensitive spot that made her shiver just thinking about it. His normally calm and self-possessed demeanour fragmented when he became aware of a memory lapse, so she eventually got into the habit of not correcting him if it wasn't necessary. Now definitely wasn't the time to bring it up.

"—and I wanted to do something special for you. Out-of-the-ordinary special. I got to thinking. We ended up spending our honeymoon at St. Mungo’s when my mum, well . . . . You never complained, and we never made up for it, and we haven't ever gone on holiday farther than Swansea since then. I wanted to give you a _proper_ holiday—someplace warm and far off and away from everyone, just the two of us. So, I've been taking every extra job that's come my way, and I wanted so badly to surprise you. I didn't think. I'm so—" The pressure building in the back of his throat choked the rest of his apology. He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes, and he knew how events would transpire from there. He would cry, she would busy herself in another room until he had gotten himself back under control, and neither would say a word about it. He hated it, but there was nothing he could do.

Neville turned towards the sink to spare her the sight of him completely losing it. As his breathing began to hitch and his eyes began to leak, Millicent came around to plant herself squarely in front of him and wrapped him in an embrace.

At that, he did lose it, well and truly. She dug her fingers hard into his back and let him drench her shoulder with tears and snot.

When it was over, she nuzzled her cheek against his neck and whispered, "Maybe in the next fifty years we can fine-tune this communication thing."

He laughed shakily, and then looking at her intently to gauge her reaction, he slid his hands down the smooth material to the curve of her rear.

"If you can forgive me, I think we have a month's worth of catching up to do."


End file.
